Love Lessons by Nick Sharratt Page B

‘Go on !’ I urged myself.
    I imagined giant hands on my shoulders, pushing me forwards, frog-marching me to the art block. I stumbled along and got there at last, but I still couldn’t force myself in the door.
    I hung around outside, minute after minute ticking by. I could hear the sound of Mr Raxberry’s voice, but not what he was saying. Every now and then the class murmured. Once they all burst out laughing. I longed to be in there, part of things, but I simply couldn’t move. I didn’t know what was the matter with me. I kept screwing myself up, teeth gritted, fists clenched, but my legs wouldn’t move.
    Then the art room door suddenly flew open and Daisy rushed out. She barged straight into me. ‘What are you doing, hiding there?’ she said, shaking her head at me.
    I tried to relax my face, but not quickly enough.
    â€˜Have you got a pain?’ Daisy asked.
    I mumbled something vague.
    â€˜Is it your period?’ Daisy said, sympathetic now.
    I felt myself blushing. I knew it was silly, but we didn’t even say the word at home. Mum had whispered some stuff about monthlies and bleeding and towels and then left me to get on with it. It was treated like a shameful secret. If Mum saw me rubbing my tummy or getting an aspirin she might whisper, ‘Have you got your . . . ?’ but she always let her voice tail away before uttering the taboo word. It was odd hearing Daisy discuss it so matter-of-factly.
    â€˜Shall I tell Rax you’re not well?’
    â€˜ No! ’ I said, dying at the thought of Daisy discussing my fictitious painful period with Mr Raxberry.
    â€˜Well, you’d better go and get cracking then. We’re all doing a still life. I’m going to look for daisies for mine – like my name, get it? Rax says I won’t be able to find any of them little white daisies but says there are these purply Michaelmas daisies, big ones, growing in the garden. He says no one will mind if I pick just one.’
    Daisy hurried past me. I still stood there, motionless.
    â€˜Go in then, Prudence,’ she said, turning. ‘Don’t look so scared. Rax won’t get mad because you’re late. He’s dead cool, he never gets narked with anyone.’
    I gave a little nod, took the deepest breath ever, and then went inside the art room. It seemed happily chaotic, students bobbing about in billowing smocks, setting up all sorts of still life arrangements, chatting to each other and calling to Mr Raxberry.
    They were all calling him Rax to his face, but he didn’t seem to mind. He strolled around, giving advice, juggling pots and books and ornaments into attractive still life arrangements, laughing as he listened to Rita going on about something. He didn’t have a clue I wasn’t there. He couldn’t care less.
    I decided to slip straight out again while I had the chance. But as I turned he called my name.
    â€˜Prudence?’
    I stopped, my heart thudding.
    â€˜Hi!’ He came over to me. It was so strange seeing the real Mr Raxberry close up when I’d been imagining him so vividly. He was smiling at me, his eyes friendly, his head tilted slightly to one side, exactly the way I remembered.
    â€˜Did you get lost?’
    â€˜No. Well. Sort of,’ I stammered idiotically.
    â€˜Don’t worry. It took me weeks to find my way around. Tell you what, I’ll draw you a little map.’
    I thought he was joking and smiled.
    â€˜Now. We’re setting up still life compositions, ones that hopefully reflect our personality, lifestyle, hobbies, whatever.’ He looked at me. ‘A still life is a fancy name for a lot of assorted objects. Look, here’s some postcard reproductions.’
    I shuffled them politely. I recognized most of them but held my tongue. I’d learned that some teachers thought you were showing off if you told them you knew all about something.
    â€˜Let’s find you a